Once upon a time in my early 20s, I had this brilliant idea to take up pottery.

I know.

But there was something about the thought of transforming a formless lump of clay into something beautiful, right?

Something useful.

And it just drew me in. Plus, I mean, how hard could it be,

right? I mean, it's just spinning a wheel smeared with some wet clay and voila the promise of something

beautiful. Easy peasy, at least I thought.

So I found this quaint little pottery studio.

It was bathed in sunlight, filled with earthy smell of white clay,

exactly what you think a traditional pottery studio would look like.

And every week, I would join other budding artists and learn from this teacher who had this incredible magic touch.

It was as if her hands were just born to shape clay.

I mean, they probably were made out of clay themselves. Now, before I go further,

let's be clear. Picasso with a lump of clay, I was not. My early attempts were more abstract art

than fine China. There were monks that leaned like they had one too many cups of coffee

themselves. My bowls, well, they resembled crushed hats more than anything you'd want to eat cereal

from. Every piece was this unpredictable thing, teetering on the brink of disaster until the very last moment.

Truth be told, I collected many, many paperweights that summer.

But I had a blast. It was a riot.

And for every pot that resembled a squash tomato or a mug that could barely hold a secret, let alone coffee, I just laughed it off. I mean, I actually was enjoying it to be truthful. It was like being in the middle of a comedy show where the punchline was definitely my latest ceramic creation.

In the end, I know, I know, my true calling is playing the piano, not wrestling with clay.

I will admit, the piano keys are a little bit more forgiving of my mistakes, while Clay, as it turns out,

...